Methought, awhile! 'Tis early toasting
With pæans too precipitate
A baby scarce an outline boasting:
One week at least of life must flit
For me to match it with its brothers--
I'll wager, like most infants, it
Is wholly different from others.

He frolics, latest of the lot,
A family prolific reckoned;
He occupies his tiny cot,
The eighteen-hundred-ninety-second!
The pretty darling, gently nursed
Of course, he lies, and fondly petted!
The eighteen-hundred-ninety-first
Is not, I fancy, much regretted.

You call him "fine"--he's great in size,
And "promising"--there issue from his
Tough larynx quite stentorian cries;
Such notes are haply notes of promise.
Look out for squalls, _I_ tell you; soft
And dove-like atoms more engage us;
Your _fin-de-siècle_ child is oft
Loud, brazen, grasping, and rampageous.

You bid me next his eyes adore;
So "deep and wideawake," they beckon;
We've suffered lately on the score
Of "deep and wideawake," I reckon.